


young love, first love

by Nanimok



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Yassen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Spies & Secret Agents, Yassen Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: Prompt: Somehow (drugged, injured, whatever), a delirious Yassen mistakes Alex for John and lets slip some things about their relationship or his unrequited feelings towards John.
Relationships: One-sided Yassen Gregorovich/John Rider, Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 15
Kudos: 103
Collections: Alex Rider Kinkmeme





	young love, first love

Only in an extremely, positively, unbelievably good mood does Yassen ever mention the subject of his past and Alex hoards any scrap of information he can get. During those moments, rarely does he ever mention his life at the _dacha_ , and only once—and Alex has counted—has he brought up the subject of Alex’s father himself. All other times, it is Alex who brings up the subject with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.

Both Yassen and Alex believed that Yassen was on the verge of literal death on Cray's airplane. Alex is sure that's the only reason Yassen would ever bring up the subject of John himself. He isn't sure if deathbed confessions really counted then. Especially deathbed confessions in where it ended up being proven that Yassen was lying about his dad.

In the end, it takes Yassen another brush with death for him to talk about John again. Specifically, a cut from a poisoned dagger. It's all very much like a comic book, Alex supposes. A person from Yassen's past hired to kill him and managing to get a hit. How they know each other, Yassen wouldn't say. He never talks during missions much anyway, other than the usual _'duck'_ and _'aim for the throat'._ Yassen himself wasn't particularly worried about the cut at the time. Yet, Yassen grows paler and paler. By the third hour, his body is shaking.

Alex's medical knowledge extends to emergency first-aid and—well, that's it really. He knows the common poisons which kill. He doesn't know what would induce such a reaction in Yassen's body. Taking Yassen to a hospital risks Interpol or MI6 catching his trail. And while Alex works for MI6... it's a fact he's unfortunately trying to ignore right now.

Yassen's arm is around his shoulder, and Alex is dragging him into their motel room. "Yassen," he says. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No." Yassen clamps his fingers down his arm. "No hospitals."

"It's a risk, but I can get you out if it comes down to it—"

"No," Yassen says again, "hospitals." Then, he shudders as a wave of shivers wracks his body. "I just need to rest."

"Don't be so stubborn," Alex hisses. "Look at yourself right now."

"I know what's in me." He then mumbles a series of indiscernible words. "I've had it before—"

"Hold on," Alex says. "What?!"

"A sloppy job." Yassen rubs his hands with his face. "I just need… To sleep it out."

'Sloppy' and 'job' are not words Alex would ever associate together when it comes to Yassen—not in a professional context anyway. "Well, if you're sure..."

"I am sure," Yassen says. He attempts to slip out of Alex's hold, but falters. He staggers onto the bed instead. The image is so incongruous the picture of Yassen in Alex's head—the sleek combination of his dancer's grace and precise lethality— that concern only swells harder inside him.

"Yassen."

Yassen doesn't answer, almost curled up as he is on the bed.

Alex treads closer. "Yassen," he calls again, sliding his hand on Yassen's shoulder to turn him over. "Yassen. You still have your shoes on."

Yassen's eyes are not fully closed. There's still a tiny slit of white under his eyelids. Alex is sure he's not conscious, though. His breathing, even in its frequency, is louder than usual. His pulse is stable.

 _What the hell kind of poison was on that dagger_ , Alex thinks, brushing Yassen's sweaty fringe back from his forehead. Inwardly, he notes that there are less grey hairs peppering his head than the last time Alex saw him. He must have had to dye his hair for a job. Yassen doesn't usually dye his hair for any reason otherwise.

Alex works on undressing him, rummaging through Yassen's utilitarian pack for a comfortable cotton shirt and a pair of boxers. He unties his shoes, unbuckles his belt, and manages to wrangle Yassen into his pyjamas, taking care to monitor his breathing at every stage of the process. Having Yassen limp in his arms is not how he imagines it. It's different to when Yassen's asleep. When Yassen's asleep, he radiates heat like a heat pack. Somehow, the warmth lessens his vulnerability.

Alex pauses when he gets to Yassen's watch, palming the metal, warmed by Yassen's wrist, back and forth in his hands.

This is one part of Yassen's past which he did divulged in: his grandfather's watch, given to Yassen by his father who, in turn, was gifted it by his own father. Yassen was nine when he was given the watch. At nine, Ian had given Alex so many toys and electronics that Alex struggles to pinpoint only one. Three generations. A wealth of history in one watch. All erased when Yassen threw his watch into a lagoon.

Alex got the sentiment that Yassen was letting go of his old life when he threw the watch. Yet, something as quiet but as certain as yearning can be seen on his face whenever he talks about it. There's a small fundamental part of oneself which is carried over when change occurs. It’s what differs growth from a complete transformation. This must be the small part of the old Yassen which he pockets close to his chest. A small desire which burnt strong enough to last all the trials and tribulations of his work life.

In turn, Alex gifts Yassen a modern Pobeda watch of his own, after the enigmatic man drops the information of his birthday like it's nothing special. He organises a drop box through some expert wrangling (hint: pleading) of favours from a reputable gadget-man with a soft spot for mistreated children forced into espionage early (hint: Smithers). The watch is solid black with white letters. Nice, but not too flashy. He knows the colours would please Yassen greatly.

Alex flips the watch back and thumbs against the engravings.

_Y.G_

— _A.R_

The watch was meant for Yassen to wear on his off-times, now that he's retired. He didn't think Yassen would wear it on the job.

 _What a silly thing to do_ , Alex thinks. _For a man who hates letting himself be known in any manner to be leaving his watch on._

“If you get worse, I’m calling the paramedics,” Alex tells him. “That’s non-negotiable.”

Yassen, predictably, stays as silent as a statue.

"Good," Alex says, as he's checking his phone. "Great. The only time you'll ever agree with me, it seems."

Speaking of Smithers, he's messaged Alex over their secure line.

_They've got footage of you leaving with Gandalf. Blunt is pissed._

Alex swallows down a snort. Smithers has no right calling Yassen Gandalf when they're about the same age.

 _What else is new,_ Alex texts back. _How much time do I have?_

_Two days at the most. They're trusting you to handle it right now._

_Two days,_ Alex thinks. _Will Yassen be okay in two days?_

 _Cheers,_ Alex texts. He considers asking Smithers if he's ever heard of the poison coursing through Yassen's systems. He decides against it, and places his phone on the table.

* * *

Here is another fact about Yassen: he has an undeniable passion for food which coils underneath his quiet surface. It comes out in his hums and his sighs when he indulges his senses. It also comes out in his quiet horror at Alex’s more creative concoctions borne of a tight budget and well-used microwave. When time isn’t pressing them, Yassen prepares their meals leisurely—he sharpens his knife, he free-hands his portions, he tastes every spoonful, he’s reverent towards tradition, and he’s experimental towards taste. He seems the most content when Alex is fed.

“Yum,” Alex says, peeking from behind Yassen’s back. “That looks good. Was cooking one of the classes taught at Malagosto? Did my dad teach you?”

Yassen blinks under the barrage of questions. “No, it was not. I taught myself.”

“Oh,” Alex says. “Like, right from the start? From making toast and all that?”

“More or less. Toast is, after all,” Yassen says without stutter, “one of the fundamental food groups in one’s diet.”

Alex wonders if he could sneak a piece of chicken to snack on, but with the way Yassen is eyeing up his hands, Alex doesn’t think he could get away with it.

There’s something else whizzing in his mind. Cooking is a skill solely belonging to Yassen. Cooking is something untouched by John or Hunter.

Alex presses closer onto Yassen’s back. He doesn’t want to push Yassen, even though he wants to know more. He thinks that sometimes Yassen wants to share bits of himself. And that Yassen just doesn’t know how. They want the same thing. They want someone who can see the hollowness inside each other. Alex wants Yassen to understand that.

“Can you teach me?” Alex asks.

Yassen pauses from his stirring. He touches Alex’s cheek with his fingers.

“Next time,” Yassen says. “Yes?”

* * *

Yassen ends up catching a fever and breaking into sweats. This is good. The fever is a sign of Yassen’s body fighting the infection. Alex alternates between wiping his sweat away with a cloth and cooling him down with a washcloth on his forehead.

At one point, Yassen cracks his eyes open. He threads his fingers through Alex’s hands. He curls his fingers over Alex’s fourth finger.

“Hi,” Alex says. “Feeling better?”

“John?” Yassen asks. “How… How did you find me?”

Alex can feel his stomach drop.

“Don’t…” Alex swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “Don’t worry about that. Focus on getting better, okay?”

Yassen nods, and the washcloth slips. It seems like he’s nodding himself back into his fever haze. He presses their tangled hands to his lips before he falls back asleep.

Alex waits a second. He closes his eyes and teaches himself how to breathe again. Then, he carefully untangles their hands from each other. He puts the washcloth back on Yassen’s forehead.

John is the shadow Alex can never live up to. This is what he gets, Alex tells himself, for wanting someone who longs after the sun.

* * *

On the rare occasion where Yassen accepts jobs near Alex’s home, he shares his post-mission rituals with Alex, right on his couch. Alex, right on his lap.

“This,” Yassen says, swirling his glass, “is Ardberg’s ten-year-aged single malt whiskey. The distillery is isolated on a lush island. It’s soil is burned in the distilling process. It adds a hint of smoke in the depths of it’s rich body.”

Alex eyes the bottle on his table. It’s shapely and dark green, with a black label boasting it’s age. It’s pungent and strong—Alex can smell the alcohol from here. He splashes some whiskey into his mug of hot chocolate.

Yassen puts his glass on the table. “Alex.”

“Don’t judge me,” Alex says. “I had a stressful day.”

Yassen slides him a _look._ A very unfair look which proclaims that two hard-hitting exams is no match for a mercenary job.

Which—Yassen shouldn’t be able to pull that look anyway. He’s supposed to be retired and sailing off in a yacht by the seas.

Alex sips his drink, and the combination of fire and sugar burn it’s way down his throat. “It’s good. You should try it.”

“Unfortunately,” Yassen says. “I’m saying no.”

“Weak,” Alex says. “I’m just modernising your traditions.”

“The word you’re looking for is bastardising, Alex.”

“ _Modernizing_ ,” Alex emphasises. “Dad was the one who started the tradition, wasn’t he?”

Yassen opens his mouth. He closes it and one hand slides to Alex’s hips, finger tapping in thought. “Yes,” he finally says. “He told me he had a good malt whiskey after a kill. A tradition.”

Something about Yassen’s tone piques his interest. “But you think he was lying?”

“Not lying,” Yassen says. “Just not the complete truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“It could be tradition. It could be a whim. I have little faith in John’s words in hindsight.”

“Well, I’m not lying about how good this is,” Alex points out. “Want to try?”

Yassen looks pained, but at Alex’s insistence—squirming in his attempt to get his mug closer to Yassen’s mouth—Yassen relented to one, singular sip.

Alex traces the corner of Yassen’s lips with his thumb, wiping the bits which Yassen has missed. “So?” he asks.

Yassen’s finger is still tapping on his thigh. “It’s endearing,” he decides.

Endearing. Alex can work with that.

* * *

Yassen drifts in and out his haze. Alex grabs as many chances as he could to get some water into Yassen, holding him up and letting Yassen sip as much water as he can.

Admittedly, the poison has made Yassen chatty. Alex collects the tiny bits of John as he can decode. John and Yassen were in a rain-forest at one point. John was why Yassen had his scar. He shot Yassen? Alex isn’t sure he heard it right. They toured all the sights of Paris like a pair of lovers—Yassen has told him of this before, if not in this much detail and not in those exact words. John, John, John—

 _What’s next?_ Alex thinks bitterly. _Kissing in a Venetian gondola under the moonlight for a mission?_

Then Alex feels instantly bad. His palms itches with his regret, because he would’ve had essentially accused his father of cheating on his mother if that were the case. 

“I…” Yassen murmurs. “I… made a mistake.”

Yassen’s been mumbling that for a while now. Alex isn’t too sure what Yassen is atoning for. Alex just hopes that he himself is not part of his atonement to John.

“You’ve said that before,” Alex says gently, dabbing the cloth under his jaw.

“I… was careless,” Yassen says. “I have habits... I still like... caviar.”

Alex pauses, and he can feel his eyebrows furrow. “It’s okay, Yassen. It’s okay to let yourself like things.”

“No,” Yassen says. “A killer... must be invisible… as you said.”

Alex carefully moves the cloth under Yassen’s ear. “I said that?”

“Forget him… forget about _dedushka_ …” Yassen says. “The watch had to go… it was—” Yassen breaks off into a string of Russian.

It’s all starting to fall into place. Alex feels a swell indignation towards his father. “He told you to throw your watch away?”

Yassen replies in more Russian. Alex regrets not taking more than the rudimentary tourism lessons when he was younger.

“That’s a load of tosh coming from a married man with a pregnant wife on the side,” Alex says.

“I wanted… I want to make you proud,” Yassen says.

There’s a sting where Alex has dug his teeth into his lip by accident. “I am,” he finally says. “I am proud.”

“Can’t… can’t forget him.”

“John or your grandfather?” Alex asks.

Yassen doesn’t reply. His breathing is growing longer and deeper.

“Right,” Alex says. “Rest, Cossack. You’ve done good work. Sleep now.” 

Yassen’s breathing evens out again. He falls into sleep, and Alex falls into his thoughts.

Alex also wants many things other than making his parents proud. He wants his parents alive. He wants Ian back. He wants to grab a pizza with Jack again. He wants Yassen to tell him this without the incentive of drugs and a fever. He wonders if it’s his father who Yassen sees when they’re kissing. When Yassen is cradling Alex’s head and threading his fingers through Alex’s hair, and he has one thigh between Alex’s legs, pressing sweet endearments into Alex’s mouth.

But wanting is easy and constant. Alex has learnt to live with the pangs all his life. So this will have to be another want he pushes aside. It aches to know that there are parts of Yassen which Alex will never touch, but there’s nothing Alex can do to change that.

* * *

In one of their vacation trips, Alex remembers Ian taking him to the Louvre in Paris. To this day, he doesn’t remember the paintings. Alex thinks he was too young to be interested in much of the art exhibitions, but he remembers the memory. He remembers his wonder and awe at the architecture, and the warmth of Ian’s attention as he told Alex of the history behind the paintings. They stayed there until sundown, and Ian treated Alex to ice cream afterwards. Alex remembers the ice cream specifically, because Ian tends to be strict with their diets. In hindsight, Alex realises that it was part of finetuning his body for spy work. But that day in particular, Alex remembers Ian letting him have his triple scoop without a word.

A lot of Alex’s memories with Ian are softer nowadays. Always so worn around the edges. It fits, because Ian was a soft spoken man himself. He wasn’t home often, but when he was, the house felt more settled. Alex can imagine it—the low, mild rumble of Ian’s voice, mixed with Jack’s smooth laughter and chatter. Their voices breathing life into an otherwise sterile home.

Alex thinks about Ian a lot. Ian gets blurrier with every memory. When the last details of his uncle inevitably fades, Ian would have truly abandoned him. Alex wonders when that will be.

A knock on his motel room breaks his thoughts.

Immediate weariness floods his systems. Alex blinks his eyes awake—as much as he can with the amount of painkillers and alcohol floating in his blood. He takes one look at the sorry state of his room, lowers the volume of the radio playing the background, and keeps a handgun behind his back as he opens the door.

A foot immediately inserts himself in the doorway.

“Fancy seeing you here, handsome fellow,” Yassen says. “Mind letting me in?”

It takes Alex’s sluggish brain a second to realise that Yassen is speaking in French.

Yassen frowns. Slowly, he takes Alex’s chin into his hand, running his eyes over Alex’s face. Alex is treated to the sight of a dip folding between Yassen’s eyebrows.

“Are you being responsible right now?” Yassen asks, in English.

Blinking again, Alex says, “What do you mean fancy seeing me here? It’s my motel room.”

“Hmm,” Yassen says. He scans behind Alex’s shoulder. “It’s not a very nice one. Will you answer my question now?”

“I am…” Alex rubs his face with one hand. He steps aside. “It’s just… Come in first, won’t you?”

Yassen takes an extra second running his thumb over the seam of his jaw before he walks in.

Alex can see him take in the bottle of vodka on the tables, the bandages, his messy bed, and the radio playing by his bedside. He can already hear Yassen’s comments in his head. The motel room is dinghy and over priced but it was the only one he could get on a quick notice. While Yassen tends towards luxury in his tastes, he doesn’t mind small, utilitarian spaces as long as they’re homey and cosy. Unfortunately, this motel joint can’t claim either of those traits.

Under his long coat, he’s dressed in a black turtleneck and grey slacks. He looks crisp and neat. Parisian. Alex’s grey shirt and blue shorts feel drab in comparison.

“You are hurt?” Yassen asks, folding his coat over a chair.

“A couple of stitches on my back.”

“Nothing too major then?”

“No.”

Yassen touches the radio dial. “What on earth are you listening to?”

The slight indignant tone of his voice—it just seems really funny to Alex. Yassen is usually so impeccable and untouchable. “What do you mean what? It’s just the same club songs they play every night.”

Yassen flips through the radio stations until it lands into something that sounds like a ballad—Alex isn’t familiar with a lot of French artists—because of course Yassen would listen to that kind of music. Ballads and classical music, Alex bets.

Radio finally to his liking, Yassen asks, “So?”

Alex just—stands there. He flexes his hands at his sides.

But Yassen is expert at reading him. He holds his hands out, and Alex rushes into Yassen’s arms for a hug, burying his face into the top of Yassen’s head. He lets Yassen’s solidity—the smell of his shampoo, the softness of his turtleneck, the feel of Yassen’s face burying into his neck—lull him into a gentler state of mind.

It wasn’t always this easy, Alex recalls. In the early days, Yassen would still and Alex would flinch. Now, though, they have found their balance.

Until Yassen runs his hands down his back, and a twinge of pain pinches at him.

“Ow,” Alex says. “Mind the lower back.”

Yassen immediately retracts his hands. “Apologies.”

Yassen tugs him towards the bed, and they settle with Alex on top, his head right on Yassen’s chest as Yassen brushes his fingers through the back of his head. Alex’s feet hangs on the bed, but it’s a small price to pay for being so close to Yassen’s heartbeat.

Lying on Yassen, with the low hum of a sultry voice singing in the background, it makes Alex want to be poetic. Like Alex can hear his heart singing, and Yassen’s answering in a duet. If his body is empty, then the music will only amplify and the sound of their music will drown out the worst of Alex’s thoughts. Sometimes Alex doesn’t feel like a person, only an amalgamation of mission requirements stitched together into MI6’s monster.

“A bad mission?” Yassen asks.

“Yeah,” Alex mumbles. “One of my co-workers, Lucas, he was nice. He didn’t mind that a kid half his age was privy to higher level intel than he was. Unlike almost everyone else in my unit. He’s a dad—he has a daughter and he talks about her a lot. I think that’s why he was looking out for me. His dad instincts, you know?”

Yassen is quiet for a moment, letting his finger soothe Alex in steady beats. “People in this kind of work rarely get happy endings,” he says. “Especially the ones they deserve.”

“Yeah,” Alex says again. “They don’t. And now all I can think about is his daughter.”

And Ian, but Alex doesn’t really talk about Ian. It’s too complicated a subject—even more so with his killer. All Alex can think about now—the only thought that plagues his head—is that Lucas will struggle and wither from his daughter’s memory, just like Ian did with Alex.

“Tell me about your trip to Paris with my dad,” Alex says suddenly. “You arrived early, right? What did you guys do with all your free time?”

If Yassen felt whiplash from his question, he didn’t show it. “We slept the first day. We trained.”

“That can’t be all you did.”

“The gym was extensive and the pool was Olympian,” Yassen almost smiles when Alex groans. “The morning would start with a two hour run for cardio. Then we would swim, before focusing on separate muscle groups for the day.”

“Wow, really? That’s _so_ interesting.”

Alex feels a small tug in his hair for his smarminess.

“We did the common tourist things, I suppose," Yassen says, finally relenting. "The running circuit took us down the Champs-Elysées and through Jardins des Tuileries. John was the one who knew his way through Paris. There was the Notre Dame and the Eiffel tower, but there were also the sewers and flea markets, restaurants and bars. I remember the ice cream at Maison Berthillon and the line we had to wait in.”

"I think Ian took me there too," Alex says, without thinking, curling a finger into Yassen´s turtleneck. "When I was younger." 

Yassen pauses before his chest rumbles with his hum. “It’s very good ice cream.”

“Must be very good if they pleased a food snob like you.”

“Wanting more than microwaved dinners does not make me a food snob.”

“It’s only one of the many reasons you’re a food snob,” Alex says. “What else did you guys do?”

“Well,” Yassen says. “There was a day where John requested some personal time. Naturally, I was curious.”

“So you followed him?” Alex asks, hiding his mirth.

“Of course,” Yassen says. “All the way to the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, where John was meeting your mother. You were there too.”

“She was pregnant?”

“Yes. I could see the bump of her stomach.”

“That’s a very risky thing to do,” Alex says, his mouth turning down into a frown. “I can’t believe he would risk mum like that.”

“You don’t think that it’s awfully romantic?” Yassen asks. “Risking it all to steal an hour or two with your lover?”

“Not during any kind of mission with _Scorpia_ ,” Alex says vehemently. “And lover? They're married!"

"Lovers can be married."

"You’re so old-school.”

“I often wonder why I am ‘old-school’ in my ways,” Yassen says. “Ah. Yes. It could possibly be because I’m old.”

Alex shifts so that he can rest his chin on Yassen’s chest. “You’re telling me you would do the same?” Alex asks. “You? The most professional killer alive?”

Yassen gathers his thoughts. “Not completely the same,” he says. “I like to believe that I would have been smarter about it.”

“Of course you would.”

“Maybe back then I would have done the same,” Yassen admits. “I was a very different person back then.”

“And now?”

The stretch of silence which Yassen takes is longer this time. Alex has almost forgotten the question, lost as he is in the steady rhythm of Yassen’s calloused fingers on his scalp.

“I find myself understanding John more and more these days,” Yassen says. “We’re not completely the same, no, but maybe there is a method to his madness after all.”

* * *

Yassen’s mumblings are stronger—more lucid without Yassen being truly lucid. They come in full sentences. They come with less frequency. It’s a sign that his fever is passing.

Hours have passed. Exhaustion lingers in Alex’s limbs. His mind stretches itself thin while he carefully tracks Yassen’s breathing.

What Yassen said—Alex has forced himself to put it behind him for now. He doesn’t want to jump the gun. He doesn’t want to be the kind of person who digs the things Yassen said while he’s defenceless and vulnerable against his throat, like a jagged blade, without Yassen even knowing why he’s so vicious all of a sudden. If he lets himself think—if he lets himself break the thin veneer holding him back, the poison will spill, and it won’t just be Yassen that’s poisoned. They’d both be worse off than where they started. Alex knows himself too well.

It’s not like Alex has never had these thoughts before. He remembers what Yassen said on Cray’s plane. Yassen loved John first, and he loved Alex by association because they barely knew each other back then. Now, they’re intertwined, like threads of a long believed conspiracy theory. Now, they know each other by heart. Memorised so thoroughly that Alex could probably trace Yassen’s face with his eyes closed. Alex had hoped… that by now… by now…

In the corner of his eye, Alex sees his phone light up.

 _Jones is getting worried,_ Smithers sends. _She’s sending a unit about a hundred kilometres west of your position._

Great. Just another thing to worry about, MI6 and their performative guilt. The times where he doesn’t need their meddling are the times Blunt and Mrs. Jones pretend to care about his safety.

 _Thanks,_ Alex sends back. _I’ll lay low._

“John…” The bed sheet rustles as Yassen shifts. “Are you still here?”

Yassen’s voice is quiet and dry, but it’s clearer than before.

“Yes,” Alex says. “I’m still here. Sit up, Yassen. You need a drink.”

Alex helps Yassen sit and sip his water. He takes five sips, much more than before. His hands are less shaky, and his movements are less jerky. He’s on the mend. Alex feels relief wash through his body.

Even the act of drinking, however, is enough to tire Yassen out. He slides back under the blanket, but one hand flies to his wrist. “My watch.”

“What?”

“Where’s my watch?” Yassen asks. “I had it with me.”

“You threw it away remember?”

“I did…?” Yassen’s voice is growing quieter, but it seems like he’s fighting to keep awake. “I don’t understand…”

“It’s okay, Yassen. You had to start a new life.” Alex gently dabs the sweat off his forehead. “You had to let go of the past.”

“No.” This time, Yassen tries to push himself off the bed. “I can’t.”

Alex catches his arms before he can hurt himself. “Woah! Slow down. What are you talking about?”

“I need it back.”

“The watch?”

“I need my watch back.”

Well, that’s impossible. Even if Alex could track down the lagoon Yassen threw the watch in, the watch would have rusted and degraded by now. But Alex doesn’t necessarily have to tell the truth, does he?

“Okay,” Alex assures him. “Okay.” He starts increasing the pressure on his palms on Yassen’s shoulders, coaxing him back on the bed. “We will get your watch back. You need to get better first, okay? Then we’ll go and search for it.”

Yassen draws a shaky breath in. He lets himself be pushed back. “Yes. We will do that.”

Alex fixes the blanket over Yassen, and Yassen watches him with his eyes half-lidded. He mutters to himself.

“I threw it away…” Yassen says. “Why would I do that…?”

Alex really doesn’t want to explain it all again. “It was a difficult choice,” he says.

“I don’t understand,” Yassen says. “Does that mean Alex is gone?”

Alex almost drops his washcloth in shock. “What?”

“Alex. Your son,” Yassen says, and that’s just rich, isn’t it. “He’s not with you? He looks just like you.”

Alex isn’t sure how those two statements connects in Yassen’s mind, but he reaches out to stroke Yassen’s jaw.

Yassen catches his wrist before Alex can touch him.

“I’m sorry, John,” Yassen says. “I have to find him. I have to find Alex.”

Alex swallows. “What do you mean?”

“Alex needs me,” Yassen mumbles. “He needs me. You see that right? I love him. I can’t leave him.”

“Oh,” Alex says. His voice is shaky. “Oh.”

“I have to go,” Yassen says. “I have to find Alex.”

“We will,” Alex promises him. “Sleep, Yassen. Then we can go and find Alex tomorrow.”

After a few seconds of staring, Yassen finally nods. Alex can hear his heavy breathing even out once more. He watches Yassen’s chest as it rises and as it falls. Alex’s chest feels tight—every breath feels particularly raw and tender at this moment. He spies Yassen’s watch on the table and he takes a deep breath.

It feels like a sucker punch to his sternum, but in the best way possible.

Once Alex is sure that Yassen is fully asleep, Alex presses a kiss to the bottom of his jaw. “Get better first,” he says, stroking his chin. “We can talk about it then, okay?”

* * *

Alex hates the humidity, hates the intense blanket of moisture settling heavily in his lungs. Not a single action is without its price, and sweat soaks his shirt before he has the chance to take his first shower of the day. Such is the price of Cozumel, Mexico, his latest place of deployment. Although, the heat is more tolerable at night, here, when the ground has cooled, and a soft wind is blowing in the air.

The group he’s deployed with is better than the others, but they’re also considerably rowdy. After a successful mission, it’s agreed that some personal time is needed to blow off some steam—his commander said. His team disperses with the weak promise to meet up in the morning if they weren’t hungover. Alex finds himself wandering the streets, losing himself in the wave of tourists that walk past and the sight of bright, vivid, colourful buildings around him.

There seems to be a festival tonight, with restaurants and bars opening later than usual. There are lights strung up in trees, casting a soft orange glow on the brick paths. Music is playing around him—a deep voice accompanying the rapid plucking of a classical guitar. The patrons sitting outdoors add a layer of chatter and joy to the music. Each table has a candle. The candle burns unbothered by the breeze. 

Alex isn’t feeling for any food in particular, so he picks the next informal restaurant he sees and orders there. He sits outside with a bottle of beer after his empty plate is taken away, content to watch the artist sing as numerous people sway close to the music.

A sleek figure slides into the seat across from him. “You’re not going to join them?”

“Why would I?” Alex asks back. “I just finished work. I'm tired. I'm already sweaty. I’m not moving from this chair unless you tip me from it.”

Yassen lets a corner of his lips curve into a smile. “Not a fan of the heat, then?”

He sounded a bit grumpy then, didn’t he? Alex grimaces. “Sorry. I’m not fond of humid places.”

London’s climate is wet and heavy too—but in the miserably rain and dry cold kind of way.

“I didn’t think you’d be like a wet cat in this climate,” Yassen says. “Except, it’s the opposite. Your fur has grown twice its size.”

“Why are you in such a good mood?” Alex says, refraining from putting his bottom lip out. “You should feel more out of place than me right now. You wear shirts and shorts when it’s buttfuck cold outside.”

“Humidity doesn’t faze me,” Yassen says simply. “Your British mannerisms must be infectious if I’m speaking about the weather for this long.”

“Oh, ha-ha.”

“I am here for a reason.” Yassen holds out his hand. “I wanted to see if you were up for a dance.”

Now that surprises Alex. He puts his beer on the table. He eyes the people around them. “You don’t think that’ll draw too much attention?”

Yassen shrugs. “We’re already considered strange. We’re tourists. And we’re not alone.” He gestures at the crowd, and indeed, there’s two women dancing while their hands are on their waists. Their faces are so close, they're basically sharing a smile. 

Alex can’t believe Yassen tracked his squad all the way to an island in Mexico for a dance. He’s glad the beer has already warmed his cheeks red.

“Alright,” Alex says, taking Yassen’s hand. “Why not?”

Yassen leads him through the crowd, to spot where the music is clear but they have a meter of room in all directions. Not quite part of the dancing crowd, but not quite apart from it either. He pulls Alex in by the waist, and Alex will never get over it—Alex being taller than him. Yassen’s presence just seems so large and looming, that it figures the man should be as well. This isn’t the case. Alex is almost two centimetres taller than him.

Yassen smells of his cologne and fresh laundry. So his place must have been close to the restaurant if he hasn’t gotten even a light layer of sweat on it. Alex hates human contact combined with the feeling of sweat when it’s induced by the humidity, but with Yassen right in front of him, he suddenly wants to bury his face into Yassen’s neck.

The music has turned more alluring as they dance—voluptuous in the singer’s cries and the rise and fall of the guitar riffs.

Yassen is humming as they sway to the music.

“This is very nice,” Alex says, looking at the lights around them.

“Yes, it is,” Yassen says. “Happy Birthday.”

“My birthday’s already passed.”

Yassen chuckles softly. “You’re not the only one who has a birthday each year, Alex.”

“Oh," Alex says. "Alright then." He quickly hides his shock from Yassen’s confession. “Happy sixtieth birthday.”

Yassen pinches his waist.

“Sorry,” Alex says. “I meant to say sixty-first.” 

Yassen’s head dips low and he kisses Alex’s neck. His lips lingers, savouring the taste of his skin—pressing so tenderly that Alex melts—and burying his laughter in the process. “Shut up and dance, Alex,” Yassen says as he pulls Alex in closer. 

* * *

When Yassen is fully awake, Alex is lying beside him. He’s on top of the covers, on his side, and watching the minute expressions crossing Yassen’s face. Fascinating stuff. That’s how Alex knows Yassen is fully awake. All the other times, Yassen woke up mumbling. This time, he wakes up silent.

Alex can track Yassen analysing his surroundings—the ceiling, the floor, his clothes, his position, and Alex himself. He can pinpoint the moment where Yassen finally recollects enough information to make sense of it.

“I was poisoned,” Yassen says. He moves his mouth like he’s unused to the way it bends.

“You were,” Alex says. “Pretty badly.”

“It wasn’t this bad last time,” Yassen admits. He turns his head to look at Alex. “I scared you.”

Alex lets his eyes run over Yassen’s features. He tries imagining working through the poison in a flat by himself. Alone and disorientated.

“You did,” Alex says. “You were out of it.”

Yassen is also watching him. “I’m sorry.”

Alex shakes his head. “Not your fault.”

His short answers causes Yassen to blink carefully. A quiet Alex Rider is truly a concerning phenomenon.

Yassen wets his lips. “Did I say something?” he asks slowly.

It’s not often he sees Yassen nervous. “Yeah,” Alex says. “But it’s nothing bad. I’m just thinking.”

Then, he says nothing more as he collects his thoughts like stray pennies on the street.

“Do you remember Paris?” Alex asks.

“Yes,” Yassen says straightaway. “Which one?”

“The first time we were there together. I had a bad mission and you visited me after.”

“I remember.”

“You said that people in this line of work rarely get their happy endings,” Alex says. “Do you think… that maybe…”

Alex trails off, suddenly realising that he’s afraid of putting the possibility in the air. Like he’s encouraging bad luck by bringing attention to it.

Lucky for Alex, Yassen isn’t afraid. “No,” Yassen says. “I’ve already gotten mine.”

Then he threads one hand through Alex’s own. This time, not a single finger lingers on Alex’s fourth finger.

“I’m having mine right now,” Yassen corrects. “And he butchers chicken nuggets by microwaving them.” He presses his lips against Alex’s hand to soften the blow.

“Oh, sod off,” Alex says, although he can’t help the soppy smile growing on his face.

Alex would kick Yassen off the bed, but Yassen had just recovered from a pretty taxing ordeal. So he won’t. For now.

Alex squeezes his hands. “Even if I never stop working for MI6?” Alex asks.

Yassen squeezes back. “Even if you never stop working for MI6.”

“You talked about my dad,” Alex blurts out.

Yassen doesn’t reply for a while. His hold on Alex’s hand never falters.

“Oh?” he finally asks.

“I don’t care, you know?” Alex says. “Not that I—don’t _care_ care. I do, since it is very important to you. I guess what I’m just trying to say is that—” Alex bites his lip. “Fuck. I’ve already made a mess of this.”

“No, you haven’t,” Yassen says. “It’s a messy situation.”

“What I’m trying to say is,” Alex tries again, “that it doesn’t matter if dad had your past, as long as I have your present and your future. Because I want it. I want that happy ending.”

Yassen brings up his other hand. He strokes the side of Alex’s face. “Always.”

“Good,” Alex says.

And he catches Yassen’s eyes, because in this one fact, Yassen must know without a single shred of doubt.

“I love you,” Alex says, and he shuffles closer so that he can kiss Yassen his promise.


End file.
